I think, I'd like to have a theme for everyday. Just a random theme generator to set the mood for the day, ay? :)
I love moments in life where you can just be silent with someone and go away feeling like you've had the most meaningful conversation ever. Or even those moments, where you both talk endlessly without a word in edgewise and still have tons to talk about when it has to end.
I love lying down for hours, looking up at the clouds, taking in their graceful and subtle dance amidst the everchanging spectrum of blue.
I love smelling the fragrance of newly cut grass, the cool feel of earth between my toes.
To days where I would run barefoot in fields, laughing excitedly, and just flop down tiredly when I couldn't run anymore.
And then look all around me. Insects scuttling among the blades of grass, in their little worlds, with their little itineraries.
Zigzagzigzag.
And then, pluck a stray leaf or two, and find out, that daun pegaga makes a most delicious kerabu, paired with hot steaming Indian-style cooked rice.
The days where we would sprinkle powder all over the red sandstone verandah, and pretend we were graceful iceskaters. The occasional ah-choo! and less-than-graceful slippy-slide on the sides, each taking turns and choreographing our own gangly routines, applauding each other despite not even knowing what we were doing.
Running around, in a musty smelling mansion, rooting out old scandals, love stories and hauntings, on a hot sweltering afternoon. Shuddering at the skeletons of lizards under the carpet and then going up a flight of stairs to discover it's been boarded over right at the top. Why? we asked ourselves, and then proceeded to concoct the most deliciously eerie ghost stories, that even until today, give me the shivers.
A little Indian girl, clad only in her pajamas and diapers, running around the compound, calling, "Yi-Lin Aka!" while I hid and laughed as she tried to find me and tried to scare her when she did.
Those mystic days, where everyone had ash daubed on their foreheads, necks and tongues, where I was also included and I dutifully nodded my head in respect, with the smell of raasam cooking in the background, solemn clear notes of bells in the air.
Chilly mornings where I'd sit down with the girls and eat Idli with spicy coconut chutney and laugh and joke. The metal plates and cups would lend their unique flavours and ambience to the meal.
Those merry moments when there were large family functions and I would be dressed up just like everyone else, Pottu complete, and try to help around with serving the candies, while sniffing at that smell of Uncle Bala's famous Mango Chutney that "he only makes, and only he can make, for functions such as these" so whispers Aunty Valli.
The simple bus ride late at night, along the winding coastal road, smelling the different scents wafting in through the windows. Even in the afternoon, on the same bus route, so much would have changed.
I still look back and smile at a memory of a minibus, with only two passengers. The driver stopped by the side, picked up a friend with a guitar. And he just sang some bluesy tune while the driver hummed and drove us slowly to the last stop on the route. I didn't want it to stop, resting my head on a creaky metal frame, with the cool night air drifting in, rearranging wisps of my hair and that unforgettable tinge of salty, sea air.
The late night jaunts with the neighbourhood burger guy and his brother who made drinks, with their friend, the koay teow man. How we'd go there, sit down on their stalls' bicycle seats and chat while they made our orders. Even the time, when all the tables were full, we sat on the grass and had our meal nonetheless.
The precious moments when we'd be so hot and bothered, but we'd still walk all the way to KOMTAR from school, just to save us that 50 cents.
Sitting down in McDonald's, with a whole cheesecake covered in chocolate chips, bought with our money pooled together. And then, we'd drop in coins, to play our favourite songs from the jukebox, to sing along, to blush, to be reminded of a certain someone the song represents to us.
Staying back in school with Elaine and Lay Hoon, and walk to FIMA, where we'd buy roast potatoes in their jackets, and sit on the stairs and yak our lives away. Following which, we'd wander around in the furniture shops, picking out the designs we'd like in our future houses.
Braving that grumpy old uncle and aunty in Times Bookstore, to sit down and read the books we never had the money to buy. All the RL Stines and LJ Smiths and whatnot. Looking through teenybopper magazines for pictures of boyband members, and sigh as we each picked out our "handsome" choices.
Walking all over the island, collecting donations for Red Cross, and meeting all types of people. Replete with complaining about how our school uses us, we'd still persevere, for the sake of continuing "the never ending 32year streak of MGS being the highest collector on Flag Day" so threatened by our seniors. No... we wouldn't dare. In front of them, that is. Of course, success was ours each year. That triumphant feeling, as our plump, saree-clad teacher would show off the trophy proudly during Assembly was actually quite priceless.
Going to "Gatherings" and "JOTA-JOTIs", touted the most prestigious events of the years, where invitations are paramount to elite social status. And, would that "special someone" be there? That question plagued everyone and would set the tone for the entire event. Collecting all the badges and souvenirs from those events was testament to how influential you were in the highschool community. Of course, for a school's event to be decreed a failure, would throw that school's reputation and its members into the a social desert. Turnouts for following events involved constant cajoling and definitely less people, with some of them turning up just for friendship's sake. Turn that one around, and have a waiting list comparable to the hottest club in New York.
Hacking away at stubborn bamboo sticks in the pouring rain, and ending up creating a suspended, swinging bridge for a gateway. Building multi-levels and marvelling at daredevil Swee Phaik for going up and jumping up and down, to test if the knots held and then, finally, sitting down and grinning endlessly at our handiwork, mopping away sweat with our dusty, grimy and splinter-filled hands.
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Life, I believe, and us, are shaped by those moments. Small and trivial as they may seem, but it is in those precious little moments, that I see myself, my friends, my state and my country in its own original simplicity. Where there were no barriers, no differentiation, no campaigns to 'unite', no race, no prejudice, no anger, no hate.
We just did. It came naturally and all we did, was take the ride and enjoy the places it took us.
I have never viewed anyone's lunches as poor or lower standard. In fact, I shied away from big, impersonal houses. A meal, no matter what, where and how, is sacrosanct. The mere offering of that simple act, is more than enough to show that they have invited you into their homes, with an open heart and a warm welcome.
I believe, to eat with a family, food cooked with their own hands, is one of the highest gifts anyone can ever give you. It doesn't have to be contrived or fancy as long as the sincerity of heart exists. They have invited you to partake in a ritual as old as mankind, their inner circle where they perform acts so personal : and you, you have been asked to be there.
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I see all this and smile.
THIS is what makes the world a beautiful place.
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